by Amy Vansant
“What?”
“I have to help them. They can’t do it without me.” She waved a hand toward the front of the hotel. Out front, the giant stood staring through the glass front door like a hungry kid outside an ice cream shop.
“Who is that enormous man? It must have taken a whole bolt of fabric to make that shirt.”
Angelina flashed a genuine smile, revealing her affection for the man. “Bracco. He has aphasia, but he makes a great doorman. Would you try to bum rush this hotel with him outside?”
Shee winced at the memory of the New Hampshire giant. “You’d be surprised,” she mumbled.
“He’d do anything for your father.”
Shee’s head cocked. Angelina’s sentence resonated very present tense.
“So, to confirm, Mick’s not dead?”
Angelina laughed. “No, he’s not dead. Why would we leave him dead in his bed?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Why are you wrapping bodies in carpets?”
Angelina’s mouth pulled to the side. “So you noticed him?”
“Uh, yeah. Your girl Croix almost dropped him to the floor.”
“Croix graduated the Naval Academy with honors. Mick adores her.”
Shee recoiled as if Angelina had slapped her.
Ouch.
“You said that to hurt me.”
Angelina shrugged. “I’ll be honest. I’m a little angry at you.”
“Fair enough.” Shee began to see a pattern. A giant with aphasia, a girl with a promising Naval career, instead working at a hotel...
“Sounds like Mick’s creating his own little Island of Broken Toys.”
The corner of Angelina’s mouth curled into a smile. “Something like that.”
“And the dead guy?”
“Captain Rupert. Retired Army. Mick found him living alone nearby, no family, riddled with cancer. Gave him a room and, eventually, a morphine drip.”
“So Dad’s a doctor now, too?”
“He has people.”
“And this guy was rolled in a carpet because...”
Angelina sighed. “Because we promised we’d bury him with his wife, but the cemetery said no. He sold his adjacent plot to cover bills and they’d resold it.”
“So you’re going to add him to his wife’s grave in the middle of the night?”
Angelina nodded. “And I have to go. I made a deal with the night guard to get us in.”
“Can I go see Dad while you’re gone?”
“No.”
Shee scowled. “You can’t stop me.”
“Sure I can.” Angelina pulled the chain on her neck out of her blouse to reveal a key at the end of it. “You can’t even get to his floor without the elevator key.”
Shee covered her eyes with one hand and then pulled her palm down her face. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“What?”
“I’ll help dig. Unless you made a deal with a guy with a backhoe, too?”
“That would wake the whole subdivision next door.”
Shee took a step toward the front door. Angelina grabbed her arm, her jaw set, her eyes threatening to overflow a third time. “We’ve been trying to find you for years, Shee.”
Shee looked away. “I didn’t want to endanger you.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Angelina stormed away and then just as suddenly spun on her heel to return. Shee took a step back, certain the woman was going to hit her.
Harley’s black eyes shot in the direction of her agitated mommy and she moved to the edge of the desk, whining. Angelina scooped her into her palm and pressed her against her chest.
Therapy dog, indeed.
“You make me so mad—you made me forget my dog.”
Angelina’s glare threatened to slice Shee in two. The dog hadn’t succeeded in changing the subject. The concierge strode toward the door again, making it one extra step before spinning to reverse course again.
Shee’s neck retracted an inch.
Here it comes. Now, she’s going to hit me.
Angelina spat words as she approached. “I’ve missed you and I’m going to hug you, whether you like it or not.”
Shee relaxed a notch. “Go ahead,” she said, trying to match Angelina’s agitated tone. “I’m going to pretend I don’t like it, but secretly enjoy it.”
Angelina wrapped her arms around her and squeezed hard, while still being careful not to crush the Yorkie. The dog scrambled against Shee’s chest, though she didn’t know if it was from irritation or a desire to get involved in the hug.
Shee pressed back, letting her cheek rest on Angelina’s shoulder.
It had been a long time since she hugged someone she loved.
It felt good.
It also made her feel a little crazy.
Maybe I should let go before I can’t.
“I—” Shee started, unsure what she might say.
Angelina saved her the trouble and cut her short as she stepped back.
“There’s no excuse. Now it’s too late,” she said, adjusting her blouse.
“What do you mean?”
Bracco knocked on the door and Angelina turned and motioned she’d heard him. “We have to go. We have a small window—”
“Wait. What do you mean, it’s too late?”
Angelina’s diamond-edged glare returned. “You waited this long. You can wait a little longer.”
“But you said—”
“There’s no hurry, Shee. He’s in a coma.”
Angelina strode toward the front door, Yorkie peering over her shoulder to see if Shee would follow.
&&&
Chapter Thirteen
Shee couldn’t remember many car rides as awkward as this one.
Once, a boy tried to kiss her under the guise of teaching her how to drive. Surprised, she’d jerked the wheel to the left and popped both tires against a curb.
Awkward.
But the current trip hit a ten on the awkward scale. She couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if she were bound and gagged in the trunk with the dead guy.
Angelina flanked her in the back seat of an aging black Cadillac sedan, simmering somewhere between sobbing and livid. She tapped her bright orange fingernails against the bangle dangling from her left wrist in a strange rhythmic pattern Shee suspected to be some profanity-laden Morse code.
The earbud-clad young woman riding shotgun wore attitude like a cloak of invisibility. Though, she didn’t try to hide the scathing looks periodically thrown in Shee’s direction.
What did I do to her?
A gibberish-speaking giant sat behind the wheel, seemingly unfazed by the cauldron of bubbling emotion in which they all boiled.
The dead guy in the trunk didn’t have much to add.
Shee stretched her back and tried to identify the tinny tune leaking from Croix’s earbuds. She didn’t know it. It sounded like someone beating a guitar with a chicken.
“Well. This is fun,” she said.
No one responded.
She looked at her watch, eager for their task to be over so she could see Mick.
“Why is he in a coma?”
Angelina didn’t look at her. “Later.”
“Why can’t you tell me—”
“You made him wait. You can wait.”
“Oh, that’s mature.”
“Right. I’m the immature one.” Angelina had eyes on her now. She hissed the words.
Shee opened her mouth and then shut it, noticing Croix squinting at her.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, tired of been made to feel like a criminal.
Croix rolled her eyes and faced forward.
Shee turned to the window and watched the trees go by.
Kids. Can’t live with them, can’t sell them to the circus.
They drove for a long, silent time down an increasingly rural road until the headlights shone on a cemetery’s wrought-iron gates. A man wearing dirt-streaked cargo pants and a faded Lynard Skynard t-shirt appeared from the dar
kness. He spat as Angelina rolled down her window and then reloaded his sinuses with bubbling nasal friction.
Shee grimaced. “Charon could use a tissue.”
Angelina dangled herself from the window like bait and Charon shuffled over, intrigued.
“Hey, A,” he said, running the back of his hand across his nose.
Shee looked away.
Oh come on with the snot.
Angelina reached out a hand and presented him with a wad of money produced from thin air.
“Thanks, Biff, we appreciate it,” she purred.
Shee cocked an eyebrow. “Biff? I did not see that coming.”
Biff took the money and nodded. “Just be quick.”
Angelina patted Shee’s knee but directed her next comment to Biff. “Don’t worry. We brought our best digger.”
Biff leaned down to bless Shee with an unsettling stare before ambling to the gates to enable their passage to the underworld. Bracco eased the Cadillac through, rolling down a stone path deep into the cemetery. As he parked at an angle, marble headstones shone beneath his headlights, glowing like stars against the thick, dark grass.
Bracco popped the trunk as the rest of them clambered out of the car.
Croix plucked the buds from her ears and jerked two shovels from the trunk, handing one to Bracco and holding the other aloft in front of Shee. “We only brought two shovels. You can take first shift.”
Shee placed a hand on her own chest. “No please, you first. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Croix frowned, but kept the shovel and followed Bracco to a nearby grave.
Angelina sat on a white stone bench tucked beneath a gumbo limbo tree, known as a tourist tree for the way its bark peels like a sunburned snowbird.
“I suppose I should officially introduce you all,” said Angelina, sounding as enthusiastic as a coroner. “Bracco, Croix, this is Mick’s daughter, Shee.”
Bracco looked over his shoulder. “Oughta plaster hearts.”
Shee’s brow knit. “What?”
“Aphasia,” Angelina reminded her.
Oh. Right.
Shee nodded to him. “Nice to meet you, too.”
Croix either nodded or stretched her neck in Shee’s general direction. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she muttered. Before Shee could comment, the girl replaced her earbuds, slipped on leather gloves and started digging.
Shee sat beside Angelina on the bench and bumped her with her shoulder. “They’ll warm up to me.”
Angelina grunted.
Time to get to business.
Shee took a deep breath. “Can you tell me now? When did he come back to the hotel?”
“About two years ago. He spent six months waiting for you, and then found himself a new mission.”
A tsunami of guilt crashed against Shee’s heart, so real it actually hurt.
Move on. Nothing to see here.
“New mission?”
“Uh huh. Helping people.”
Shee scoffed. “He always did that.”
“Not like this. He came up with a grand plan to make up for his whole life.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know. Save a life for every life he took in the service, blah blah blah.”
“I see you were moved.”
Angelina shrugged one shoulder. “I wanted him to retire. To run the hotel like a normal person. Instead, he sat still for about five minutes before some guy came looking for his lost son.”
“He thought he was in the hotel?”
“No, he wanted to hire Mick. Lord knows how he knew Mick the Savior was open for business.”
“Did Dad find the kid?”
“He did. Kid was fine. Just irresponsible and cruel. Sixteen years old.” Angelina chuckled. “He tried to fight your father.”
“I’m sure that went over well.”
“Oh yeah. Mick delivered him to his father in a golf travel bag.”
They laughed. Croix paused to glace at them, her scowl deepening.
“And then there’s the vets,” added Angelina, nodding toward the diggers. “The hotel is staffed with them. Part of your father’s grand plan to save the world, save his soul, save them...”
“He used to talk about doing something like that with the hotel.”
Angelina nodded. “They show up with his handwritten invites and we give them a home. Then he puts them to work helping his clients.”
Shee leaned toward Angelina and whispered. “Why does the curly-headed one hate me?”
Angelina lowered her own voice. “Mick treats her like a daughter.”
“Ah. And I’m the real deal. She feels threatened?”
Angelina shrugged one shoulder.
Shee watched Croix dig, remembering when her father’s approval meant everything. She wondered how she’d stayed away so long. “So, what happened? Something during one of his good Samaritan missions? Did he have a stroke?”
Angelina shook her head. “A month ago someone shot him in the head. Not during a tussle, either. It was a hit. A sniper.”
Shee gasped. “What? Who?”
“I don’t know. You and Mick are the trackers, and you were nowhere to be found.”
Shee ignored the accusation in Angelina’s voice and stared at the ground, doing the math.
So close. Where was I four weeks ago?
She swallowed and fought to keep from slipping into a quagmire of her own regret.
“What do you know? Was it here?” she asked.
“No. He went to help a friend. It was a setup.”
“What friend?”
Angelina’s tone grew icy. “I don’t know. Mick wasn’t big on leaving trails. Called him Thor but I doubt that’s his real name.”
“Viggo,” said Shee, picturing her father’s enormous friend.
Suddenly, my whole world revolves around giants.
“You know him?” asked Angelina.
“He was on Dad’s team, back in the day.”
Angelina released a shaky sigh. “Okay. That’s something we can work with.”
“Big ole Viking—from Minnesota, I think.”
Angelina slapped a hand on Shee’s thigh. “Yes. That tracks. Someone sent an anonymous email from an untraceable IP.” She waggled a finger in Croix’s direction. “Whatever that means. That’s her end of things. The email told us Mick was in an Airbnb in Minneapolis.”
Shee gaped. “They left him lying in a coma in an Airbnb?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Yes. But it means someone wanted to help.”
“Viggo?”
“Maybe. I had Croix try to track down who rented the house. The owner could only say it was a woman’s voice on the phone.”
Shee nodded. “I need all the information. Everything you’ve got.”
“Naturally.”
“Why’d you bring him here? He’s not safe—”
“Yes, he is.”
“How can you know—”
“He’s dead.”
Shee caught her breath and, apparently sensing her horror, Angelina spoke quickly.
“Not really. We declared him dead and brought him back on the sly.”
Shee realized she’d tensed and rolled her shoulders to keep from twisting into a pretzel. “What’s the diagnosis?”
Angelina’s voice dropped to match the softness of her own. “He could come out of it. His brain is active. Doc says he finds it odd he hasn’t woken yet, but the brain is a mystery and all that medical jibberish.”
“Can you trust the doctor?”
She nodded. “He was on Mick’s short list of people to call if anything ever happened to him.”
Shee picked at the bark of the gumbo limbo, removing a peel and snapping it into smaller pieces.
Mick told her to come home two years ago. Said he’d handled everything.
Why didn’t I come back?
“Did Mick ever tell you who’d been after me and why he thought it was oka
y to come home?”
“No.” Angelina scowled.
Shee raised a hand and put it over her eye as if creating a makeshift eyepatch. “He might have been wrong. The person after me might have been who shot him.”
Croix stopped digging and pulled the buds from her ears. “That’s not it.”
Shee realized she hadn’t been hearing the tinny sound of Croix’s music. The girl had been eavesdropping.
“What’s not?” she asked.
“The stuff that drips out of your nose but that’s not important right now,” said Croix. She giggled and looked at Bracco, who snorted a laugh of his own without slowing his digging.
“Don’t get them started with the movie quotes,” grumbled Angelina. “They’re totally stupid together.”
“Make your point,” said Shee to Croix.
The girl stabbed her shovel into the ground. “You said it might be the same person, the one after you and the one who shot Mick, but that’s a negative, Ghost Rider.”
Bracco chuckled.
“Cut it out,” warned Angelina.
“Why do you think that?” asked Shee.
Croix sniffed. “Because he took care of your guy.”
“How? Who was it?”
Croix took a deep breath and then released it as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders. “He wanted to tell you.”
Shee stood. “That’s all fine and dandy but circumstances have changed.”
Croix sniggered. “Fine and dandy—?”
“Just tell me.” Shee took a step toward the girl to snatch the handle of the shovel from her. “This person hunted me for almost twenty years. He ruined my life. Tell me or I swear I’ll bury you in this grave with the old man.”
Croix took a step back, rising from the shallow ditch she’d dug herself. Shee thought she’d seen a flash of fear in the girl’s expression, but it shifted now to a smirk.
“If you finish digging, I’ll tell you,” she said, motioning to the hole.
Shee thought about swinging the shovel at the girl. Instead, she thrust out a hand. “Give me the gloves.”
Croix handed them over.
Shee jerked them on, her gaze never leaving Croix’s. “Tell me while I dig.”
Croix sat beside Angelina, who patted her leg.
“Tell her. This isn’t funny.”
Croix shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Shee stabbed the shovel into the ground. “I swear to—”